Funeral Dirge
by JackOwens1860
Summary: My take on the Grayson funeral from Dick's Point of View.


**Author's Note: Dick Grayson's point of view on his own parents' funeral and meeting with Bruce Wayne. Somewhat out of continuity, but grief is a universal concept anyway.**

**Funeral Dirge**

It sounds stupid, but at funerals, you always know how you're supposed to feel. People are always sad at funerals. But, that's when it's someone else's funeral. When it's like a relative or a distant friend or someone you knew of but had never really met, you're meant to feel sad. But the people in these boxes inches from my face aren't those sorts of people; they're my parents. So, even though I'm at a funeral and even though I know how I'm supposed to feel, I don't know how I feel. Maybe I feel empty or numb or...I should probably pay more attention in English class. I'm sure there's a word to describe how I feel, but I don't know it.

Suddenly I decide I don't want to be there, in front of them. As the sky pilot – that's what my dad called them – begins his closing address, I move to walk away. I think I want to go somewhere and cry on my own, but maybe I just want to be alone, I don't know. My foot is in mid-step when something large and heavy drops on my shoulder, rooting me to the spot. I look up and find myself staring at a man who could pass for a skyscraper. People on TV are real, I know that, but who's ever seen one up close? This guy is an actual celebrity and somebody everybody in the whole world keeps talking about. And he has a waffle-iron-sized hand on my shoulder. I think Bigfoot would lose in a fight to this guy, seriously. He's not only tall and has massive hands, he's also built like two of my dad and my dad is...dead...right. You're at a funeral Dicky boy, remember why.

He doesn't speak. He just gestures to the horrible sight in front of us like I have to watch it to the finish. Weirdly, I do what he silently tells me to. His hand squeezes my shoulder with gentleness you'd think it would be impossible. The indescribable feeling I have seems less. I like this guy's hand on my shoulder. It's actually nice. The service finally concludes and people start hugging me, saying sorry and stuff like that. It's not that I'm not grateful for their support; I just want to leave. Godzilla waits patiently at the side for me to finish meeting my public before formally introducing himself.

"Hello Dick. My name is Bruce Wayne. I'm very sorry for your loss." I honestly thought that last phrase had lost all meaning. Given as Mr. Wayne was the zillionth and first person to offer that particular line I thought I wouldn't be able to help rolling my eyes. But it didn't sound hollow; he means what he says. He doesn't even know me, but you can tell just from how sad his eyes are, he means what he says. I should say thank you, or thanks, or something that shows my gratitude, but the first words out of my mouth are:

"You're a billionaire, right?"

It is a very good job I'm twelve. If I were any younger I'd be cute for saying that, any older I'd be rude; as it happens, I just sound curious. He manages a smile.

"Yes."

"I've never met a billionaire before...or had one put his hand on my shoulder. How much money is something like that worth? If I wanted you to take a photo with me and you have your hand on my shoulder, how much would it cost?"

"Well, for you, it would be free. For anyone else, it would be free too. I don't particularly need more money."

"So do you always go to the funerals of circus people?"

"I was in the audience when it happened. My parents were killed in front of me too. I just thought I could help."

This guy is heavy. The stuff he just came out with turned a light-hearted remark meant to take my mind off the situation into sounding hopelessly inappropriate. Somehow, he's brought me to the verge of tears. I want to cry, fall to my knees and cry, but I won't. Standing there, in front of one of the most powerful men in the world, suddenly makes me terrified of being weak. I hold the waterworks back with an energy-sapping effort. Just from looking at him, I know Mr. Wayne has noticed what's just gone on inside my head. I watch him nod his head in approval.

"That's it, Dick; stay strong."

I feel the tears instantly teeter on the edge of my eyes again with that well-meant comment. Damnit. I bite my bottom lip in the vain hope it will force my grief back. He sees this too, recognizes the sign too. Then it hits me like an express train; he knows everything I feel, because he's felt it too. I feel stupid for trying to hide myself from him; he's not going to judge me for crying at my parents' funeral; who the hell would? I make a decision, there and then, to let myself go. I start crying and look to this man, this billionaire, for comfort. Amazingly, he gives me it and all of a sudden, I'm safe.

His arms, huge and menacing at a glance, hold me to his body with the same soft touch as his hands. I can't feel the cold anymore, the numbness. His arms shield me from my own emotions, the bad ones anyway. I don't cry as much as I did before. And now, I understand why he's here. He can actually really help. The hand on my shoulder, the kind words and this hug are supposed to be small things, stuff that anybody could do, but they don't feel small. They all feel big and important, like he is...and they feel real. I know as soon as he puts one of his massive hands on the back of my head and ruffles my hair that this isn't going to end in this cemetery. I push away and he lets me.

When I look at him again, I'm not crying, nor do I feel like crying. I am composed and when I speak, I sound it too.

"Um...how do you want to help me exactly, Mr. Wayne? Are you gonna give me a grant or a scholarship or something?"

"How about a home?"

As soon as he responds with that, I feel cautious. I know he's single from the tabloids and lives alone in a big, scary-looking house about twice the size of Mr. Haley's circus tent. A billionaire in his mid-thirties wants to take-in, probably adopt, a twelve-year-old orphan of circus acrobats? What would he do with me? But again, he can tell what I'm thinking, feeling already; for someone who's supposed to be a playboy, the guy sure is good at reading subtle emotion. And the way he held me...I doubt he's a pervert.

"What about all the legal crap? They told me I had to go in a care home, go through the fostering programme, be adopted etc."

"I don't want that for you. You deserve to have a happy childhood. I am offering to give you one." He should really sound like he's negotiating a business deal, but he doesn't; he sounds like he's totally serious about giving me a chance to move on with my life. God that sounded harsh. My parents are right over there; what would they want me to do? As soon as I open my mouth, I regret it.

"No strings?"

He frowns at me in what can only be confusion. "Do you honestly think conditions are appropriate at a time like this?"

"This just sounds too good to be true."

"I can take you home with me right now."

Holy shit. Excuse my language, but did he really just say I could leave this horrible place with him, right this second? Suddenly, the guy's a freaking angel. I freak out slightly.

"What about papers and my stuff and..." I'm tripping over myself in trying to offer up an excuse; do I not want this? Do I want to stay here on my own?

His hand is back on my shoulder. He looks at me with a serious expression. "Understand this is only a temporary arrangement. If it's not to your liking, you don't have to stay. But, if you should want to stay, you are welcome to stay as long as you like."

What is going on here? I seriously do not have a clue how I got from the worse day of my life to this point. Inside, my heart is screaming for me to go with him. My heart is actually aching for the love and attention of an adult, desperate to fill a void that's so fresh it's still bleeding. My head is trying to keep me in check, telling me not to throw myself into this without careful consideration. My mom always says look before you...my mom's dead. She can't help me decide here. I feel like I'm sinking down under the pressure.

"This is all happening a little fast. I actually feel dizzy." I tell him. My voice trembles; I think I'm about to black out. Something heavy lands on my other shoulder. Mr Wayne's face is now level with mine. He has gotten down on one knee in front of me, both his huge hands firm on my shoulders, holding me steady. My faintness passes. How's he doing this? It's like he's got me on a string, can make me feel anything and stop it just as easily. He speaks.

"Do you trust me, Dick?"

I met you five minutes ago. Would you trust someone you'd known for five minutes, Mr. Wayne? I worked it out: three-hundred seconds. I have been in contact with you for only three-hundred seconds of my entire life. Do I trust you? Do I trust you with what, my life? Do I trust you with my future happiness and well-being? Do I trust you to recognize me as a life-long commitment and not just flavour of the month? I do not know you from anybody else in the whole damn world and there are a lot of people on this planet. You are a stranger. You are unknown to me. Do I trust you? Do I TRUST _you_?

"Yes."

What did I just say?

"Do you want to go get something to eat?"

"Yes."

What am I doing here? He smiles at me, reassuringly, it seems and we begin to walk towards the exit. His hand is on my back, guiding me without leading me. Neither of us talks for a long time. I don't want to and he doesn't have anything to say instead. I should be afraid of this. I'm not. This man wants to help me. I want to let him.

It sounds stupid, but at funerals, you always know how you're supposed to feel. People are always sad at funerals. I'm not. As bad as it sounds, somehow, for a brief moment in that grey, damp place, I'm happy and I know my parents would've wanted that.


End file.
